


Bending Toward the Light

by GlitterDwarf



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterDwarf/pseuds/GlitterDwarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-divergent AU: As he finds out Thorin has been watched over carefully by Eru his whole life. Upon his death at the end of the Battle of Five Armies, he is given the opportunity to return to Middle Earth, to his people, and to his Hobbit. What follows is pretty damn epic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My earthbound heart is heavy

**Author's Note:**

> So while Tolkien is a fandom I've been in almost the longest, I've never written for it? But this idea wouldn't stop shouting at me, so here I am. Please send me as much help as I need, which should be a lot!

# Part 1: Resurrection

And then, from the darkness and the silence, came sound. It was little more than a small vibration—a twinkle, a tickle even. But it came repeatedly, both further and then closer, then further again. 

Next was physical sense. The ground—cool, solid, and smooth—shook whenever the sound was nearest. At the same time there was a heat from underneath the ground beating like a heart in slow, steady pumps, just barely discernible. This steady thrum felt stable, grounding, and safe.

Scent and taste burst into his consciousness sharp and sudden. In the background there was firewood crackling, dust, and the heady scent of grouped scented candles; in the foreground was the taste and sensation of his own bottom lip, which he was biting down upon, and the scent of a heavy breakfast lingering on his fingers that were clamped around his mouth. After all of these sensations came the realization of emotions—he was feeling giddy, rebellious, and nearly vibrating in anticipation. 

And then, finally, there was sight.

His world still appeared to be mostly dark and dim except for a thick block of light close to the ground. Through this he watched the floating specks of dust as they moved in ordered patterns in front of his face. A few moments later, though, the dust’s flow shifted as the vibration and sounds came closer again. He could now fully sense this—it was small feet, crisp and loud giggles, and they were quickly approaching his hiding spot. He held his breath and calculated when the right moment would be to strike.

The moment came, and Thorin’s hand moved forward in a flash to encircle the small, tanned ankle. Giggles turned to shrieks as the small body tripped and landed face-first on the ground, still gasping out sounds of shock and fright. He channeled every part of his being that wanted to laugh and turned that sound into a growl, the one he would use when telling stories about forest creatures to the dwarflings at night. This particular dwarfling, however, should never be underestimated; while still shrieking she kicked so hard until her other foot made contact with Thorin’s sharp nose. His hand loosened and suddenly his sister was running, running too fast. 

Running too fast toward areas that weren’t necessarily safe for such a small thing, so uncoordinated.

His senses narrowed again. He crawled from underneath the bed—his hiding place—and sprinted after her as quickly as he could with stars swimming and blinking like gems in front of his eyesight from her mighty kick. He followed the sound of her heavy breathing down two hallways, one turn to the right, just in time to see her run far too close to the edge of the walkway. From that point on there were the twisting, tall, narrow bridges that led to the inner areas of the mountain, areas that were difficult to navigate without falling for grown dwarfs.

“ _Dís,”_ he hollered as he lunged toward her. It was luck that had him push her small body back toward the wall, and it was misfortune that had his own body overbalance after this, over the edge, and down, down into the darkness. His final thought before his body slammed into rock— where three bones would break and his unconscious body would be found forming sickening shapes against the ground—was that it was supposed to be a joke, it was supposed to be _funny_. 

 

Thorin’s vision swam into focus again, but this time upon a different scene. Here, he was battling his way through one of the many attacks his father led against the Orcs when their filth was a cancer in the Misty Mountains. He was young, spry, and aggressive to a fault as he hacked his way through dozens of Orc bodies. Thorin sensed the presence of his father and of his brother elsewhere in the area. His whole body seemed to thrum and swell with pride, undulations of emotion as the heart of his whole being. It was this that blinded him to the Orc that was about to pick up his body and slam it, hard, against the ground. 

He was pinned, suddenly, the breath knocked out of him and kept strained by the sharp boot on his chest. The dry chuckle from above filled his ears as the Orc’s blade came down in preparation to slice Thorin’s head off.

Instead his body was splashed with the warm, thick ooze of blood from his now-headless enemy. As the body fell over he looked up to see Frerin’s face, currently twisted into a smug grin.

“I told you that you would need me,” he said with a laugh as he pulled his brother to his feet. Thorin rolled his eyes, dragged a gloved hand through the Orc blood at his chest and then rubbed it into his brother’s hair.

“A war trophy,” he shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted away from his brother’s disgusted groan, heading toward more Orcs, more death, and more blood.

 

In much this way Thorin Oakenshield watched each of the moments in his life where he should have died. 

It took several more memories to pass before they caught up with his most recent adventures, until a hobbit joined the faces of those he was fighting with. It was this halfling that crept closer and closer in these memories, first jumping in front of Thorin’s prone body at the feet of Agog, then the ringing and insistent voice in his head that broke him of his Dragon-sickness, and finally of his tear-stained face as Thorin smiled and died in Bilbo’s arms.

There should have been nothing after this moment, and yet Thorin held consciousness. This next moment was not a memory, because he had come to the final moment of possible recollections. Instead he now found himself standing in the middle of a very long—perhaps even endless—hall in a mountain he had never seen before. 

He was no longer in his Dwarven armor from his last few moments alive. Instead he was in the kingly garb he remembered seeing his grandfather wear when he was a wee child. The robes were made of a deep, velvety blue with silver, sparkling jewels inlaid at the throat and sleeves. A fur cloak covered his body from shoulder to floor with diamonds interspersed. He reached to finger at his braids and found them to be lavish and ornate in ways he never wore in life. Though there was little light in the hall his body shone and threw sparkling lights all about the great room.

More interesting than his clothes were the lack of blemishes on his body. He was miraculously whole, uninjured, and in no pain. Thorin brought his hands up in front of his face for inspection. Even the decades-long injury that kept his left thumb permanently at an unnatural angle was missing. He snapped the fingers of his right hand near his ear, and was astounded to discover that the hearing in his right ear was again as crisp and clear as it had been as a child with no practical knowledge of war.

In mind, in body, and in spirit, his being was at peace.

“That’s an enlightened way of putting it,” a voice spoke behind him. The voice was loud enough that, in life, he likely would have gone deaf and the room would have collapsed. Instead he just felt immediately as though he was surrounded in a great presence. When Thorin turned around to inspect his surroundings, though, there was no body to join the voice.

It came again, this time more quiet.

“You will have to imagine a body for me, my beloved child.”

Thorin closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let his consciousness reach out into the void until he could physically feel the other presence. He let himself sink into the feeling of warmth and calm that radiated from this being. When he opened his eyes again there was before him the visage of the Lady Galadriel.

“It is you,” he whispered breathless at the elf queen. She smiled and shook her head.

“No, my beloved, I am not this Noldo being that you have visualized. She is, though, perhaps the best approximation you could come to seeing my true form in this state.”

Thorin squinted and, sure enough, this being could not be the Lady herself. The beams of the room behind her were slightly visible through her body. Every few moments there would be a split second where the entire form would change or disappear.

“Go ahead and ask, Child.”

“Are you the great Mahal?" Thorin asked.

A simple shake said _no_.

“Are you of the Valar?”

Again, a shake of _no._ “I am even greater.”

Thorin’s eyes grew wide, and he immediately fell to press his face into the ground in submission.

“Eru Illúvatar,” he breathed. After being spoken, the room seemed to grow more warm and full.

“Yes, Child. You may stand again and look upon me.”

Instead, Thorin took to a crouching position so as to still show submission and spoke again. “If you please, enlighten me to whatever it is you need of me.”

The visage of Galadriel floated toward his body and then crouched with him.

“I have a choice for you, Thorin, son of Thráin, and rightful King of Erebor. I hope that the memories I showed you have illuminated unto you the times where I intervened to ensure your life endured. There was still much for you to do, and you are so willful a creature.” At this the being smiled and held his hand. “You have now completed what you were created to do. Erebor will again house Aulë’s creations and my adopted children. You have given your people hope and strength for the next age.”

Thorin trembled in the grasp of Eru, but he pressed on with questions. “Then why do you speak to me now? What am I to choose from?”

Fingers pressed gently to his forehead. In his mind he was able to witness moments from his life from the outside. In a flutter he moments with Bilbo: their embrace after the Eagles; seeing himself watching Bilbo sleep, or speak, or look into the distance; the moments where Thorin would see Bilbo in danger and manipulate the battles to keep him safe; the looks Thorin gave Bilbo during their conversations in Erebor, from the acorn to the Arkenstone to the betrayal. Thorin watched his own face come alive in ways it rarely did, saw it at both its happiest and its most wrecked.

Finally the images settled. He could see his own smiling face as he lay dying in Bilbo’s hands.

“Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow.”

With a shuddered gasp he was brought out of the visions and back into the realm with Eru. The being then grasped Thorin’s head and touched their foreheads together, holding him tight. The room began to shake and his vision started breaking up.

“There isn’t much time, my Child, before you won’t be able to experience this Middleland with me. You can choose to pass into peace with this new body and be rewarded for your lifetime of dedication. Or, you can go back to your kin and your Hobbit. There is much more ahead for Erebor, and even more that must happen in the life of Bilbo Baggins that will ultimately save all of Middle Earth. The choice is yours.”

Thorin needs no time to decide; the choice is obvious. In his quickly-failing vision he sees the visage of Eru flash through the smiling faces of Galadriel, Gandalf, Dís, Frerin, each of the company dwarrow, and finally settle on Bilbo’s shining and proud face.

“A wise decision,” he hears boom in his head. All goes to black.

With a gasp, he opens his eyes. Instead of peace he again feels pain, nearly blinding, as his body again is close to failing. Clutching at his body is Bilbo, whose sobs are vibrating his body. In the sky the Eagles are approaching.

“Careful,” he whispers, as Bilbo’s shaking causes his wound to hurt even more. With a start Bilbo pulls back and looks into Thorin’s face. He reaches his shaking hands to hold Thorin’s face between them, then run through his hair.

“I can’t believe it. You were gone, you were _gone,_ ” he moans. Through the pain Thorin smiles, then turns his head slightly to push into Bilbo’s palm.

“I am back, Bilbo. I am back again.”


	2. your heartbeat keeps things light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís arrives, Thorin awakens, and Bilbo has to remind himself that Erebor isn't his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the encouragement so far! I'm very excited and touched.

It took Thorin nearly twelve nights before he woke from his sleep. Considering the fact that his wound should have killed him, though, these achingly long days still felt more like a simple, single breath compared to the thought of a world without him at all.

This was certainly the opinion of Bilbo, at least, who counted himself as lucky beyond all reason that he was able to witness Thorin's final moments of lucidity before his body gave in to shock and exhaustion. There was a large part of Bilbo's mind that would argue that perhaps the dwarf was not altogether "lucid"; he had, after all, refused to let go of Bilbo's hand for most of the time he was awake. And then there was, of course, the way that he pulled Bilbo down thrice to bring their foreheads together affectionately, the final time whispering soft words is Khuzdul with a ridiculous grin. All of this pointed to the idea that Thorin was altogether mentally altered by fever and probable shock and that this would be a moment in time to laugh about in the future.

(Bilbo didn't admit it to himself quite yet, but there was in fact a small part of him, a quiet but insistent voice that said that it wouldn't be a bad thing if Thorin kept up that behavior for, well, forever. And if he spent that night thinking it over too many times, well, that was his own business.)

Of course, it wasn't just Bilbo that was happy to wait for Thorin's recovery after such a close call; there were few moments where he didn’t have multiple visitors beside his bed, and preparations were already being made for the feasts and celebrations that would be thrown in his honor. Under the oversight of Balin and with the help of all those who would come the reconstruction of Erebor began, with a magnificent royal chamber taking first priority alongside the dining areas, armories and other rooms necessary for the kingdom.

That isn’t to say that there wasn’t sadness or fear in the mountain. The loss of Fíli and Kíli ripped a wound into each soul, from the members of the company to the surviving of Dain’s army to even the more kind-hearted of the Men and Elves who knew of his passing. A decision was made amongst the company and relayed to the rest that they couldn’t hold a formal burial ceremony while Thorin lay wounded and asleep and before their mother arrived. While they waited, their bodies were placed in temporary stone tombs laid side-by-side in a locked room. Right outside this room for all of the long days was Tauriel, sitting silently with Legolas by her side. Like the other survivors who were taking up residence in Erebor (both permanent and temporary) the elves had set up their own room and made it as comfortable as possible; it was, however, only Legolas that could ever be found resting in their temporary room.

In the meantime Bilbo continued on much as he always did with the Company--quietly observing the goings-on, helping where he could, and always with his mind half-occupied by Thorin.

 

 

Bilbo was exploring one of the higher tunnels in the mountain when the first procession arrived. He had taken to this activity when he had extra moments, usually early in the morning or when Thorin was being watched over by others. It was curious that a Hobbit would want to explore so high, or want to be by himself, but Bilbo supposed that he was only living up to his reputation of being a bit different. In truth, this was just a better spot for him to be. He wasn’t a part of the handful of dwarrow who were arriving every day to reclaim their home. He was a part of the company who had initially reopened the doors to Erebor, but it wasn’t his home like it was theirs. So instead he would stay above where he could watch the others rebuilding their lives as his own was in limbo.

His days in Erebor were, after all, numbered.

It wasn’t as though the contract had any kind of stipulation that he was to be forced out after any amount of time, but it also wasn’t as though he was being invited to stay either. In what Thorin had thought his dying breaths would be he spent his moments telling Bilbo to leave the mountain. Bilbo thought of it often, of the Shire, of the comforts of his books and garden. He thought about how nice it would feel sitting by the fire, watching the world go on outside his windows instead of be in the world, as it were. And that is why he mimicked that behavior as well as he could in the mountain.

On the day when the first profession arrived he was slowly going through a corridor he had found several flights above where the main city was beginning to come together. The upper areas of the mountain were remarkably well-preserved, likely because they were so far away from the treasure to be of no concern to Smaug. So far Bilbo had found a row of rooms that were quite different than any others he had seen before. They appeared to be living quarters, but unlike a few others that he had seen these had obviously housed more important citizens. The furniture looked heavier and more ornate and the rooms were larger, often with washing rooms attached. The past few he had peeked into had obviously belonged to dwarflings based on the toys and small books he found. He had been pondering how many more children’s quarters he would find when he stepped into the next room.

The smell was unmistakable, even though it would have had to linger for many decades. After so many months, he would recognize that scent of rain, firewood and sweetness anywhere.  

This room had belonged to a younger Thorin.

Bilbo’s heart quickened as he stepped into the room. Unlike with the other rooms he explored he closed the door behind him, quietly even though he was alone so far above the rest of the mountain-dwellers. He stayed with his back pressed to the door for a few moments as a sudden wave of nervousness kept him still. For the first time, ironically, he felt as though he were truly trespassing. Best to keep this a quick dalliance and then return to his duties.

He first sat upon the bed, which looked quite inviting. It was large and hewn of a dark wood, covered in simple, royal blue blankets. Besides this there was evidence that this room belonged to something of a young adult, straddling the interests of a youngling and the growing responsibilities of a grown being. The other furniture included a large wardrobe (full of furs, Bilbo was sure), two full bookshelves, and a few extra sitting chairs. There also appeared to be a box that held toys from childhood and other keepsakes.

Bilbo turned his head to inspect the room quickly.

He swung his feet a bit from the side of the bed.

Scratched at his nose.

Bit his lip.

One more look.

Finally willing to chance it, he carefully pulled back the covers and lay beneath them. The hobbit moved into the center of the bed and stretched out, breathing in deeply. This was the closest that he had ever been--and ever would be--to intimacy with the dwarven king, and he wasn’t about to waste this opportunity.

After a few minutes of clear and easy breathing (arguably the most relaxed he had been since leaving the Shire so many weeks ago) he left the bed and carefully returned the blankets to their pristine state. He sighed, turned to leave, and promptly bumped his toes against an unknown object. Bilbo yelped and jumped back. He frowned at the object on the ground, then bent and retrieved it.

In his hand was a small, wooden object with two sets of hinges. When opened it unfolded to hold three portraits: one of a young dwarf girl; one of a slightly-older dwarf boy; and between these was a picture of both of these younglings sitting with another young, male dwarf. Bilbo traced his fingers over the familiar nose, eyes and hair of the oldest boy as he held back tears. He couldn’t openly caress the face of Thorin in real life, but he could be intimate with the memories and past whispers of him.

Bilbo slipped the portraits into his jacket and then gave a shake to his whole body.

“Get it together, Baggins,” he whispered to himself. “This isn’t your home, and it never will be.”

At that moment there was a loud blast of a horn from below. Bilbo jumped in surprise, then silently crept from the room and back down the hall to return to the open-air center of the mountain where he could watch what was happening. Below there were about three dozen dwarrow in two lines following behind one dwarf maiden. From a distance Bilbo could barely make out her features but for her long, dark hair in intricate braids. He could just make out that her beard was done similarly, and there seemed to be a gleam coming from it where he was sure it was adorned with some kind of precious gem decoration. Her attire was all black and looked to be fur. The family resemblance would have been strong enough to recognize her even if Bilbo hadn’t just seen a portrait of her as a wee dwarfling.

Dís, daughter of the mountain had returned to Erebor.

 

 

“It’s easy to see why you have earned favor of everybody I love,” Dís said with a teasing wink at that evening’s private feast. Bilbo had immediately turned as bright as some of the flowers in his garden and sputtered around a smile while the rest of the company roared in laughter.

“You can’t be taking her too seriously, Master Baggins,” Bofur said as he leaned over and nudged Bilbo’s shoulder with his own. “Dís is a master of using sweet sayings as a weapon.”

“Aye!” Balin chimed in with a smile. “She has tricked even my dear brother with her words.”

Dwalin growled and looked to fight this, but stopped and flushed when he saw the sweet smile Dís was giving him. She then turned to Bilbo.

“We were not all given combat training in my family. I had to learn my own way to be deadly,” she explained. He simply nodded, as he could understand this completely. It was why his own worth in the company was expressed more in his ability to deceive enemies than in his ability to kill them. Bilbo knew immediately that he should not underestimate her; she had the beauty of Thorin and the charm of her sons, a combination that could easily overpower even the strongest of wills.

Supper that night was held in a private dining area that Bilbo guessed had in the past housed council meetings. Now it was used to contain a table of rowdy dwarves, one amused wizard and an exhausted Hobbit. After the meal was done they shared pipe-weed and a somber mood fell over the group. Stories of the fallen princes started to be spoken.

“I won’t forget their spirits,” Ori said barely above a whisper. “They truly knew the way to make a simple one such as me feel worthy.” Dori reached over to clasp his brother on the shoulder and a rumble of “aye” passed around the other dwarrow.

“I won’t forget their talent in battle,” Dwalin added. “It was an honor to fight beside them.”

After a few tense moments of silence, Dís gave a short, quiet laugh and started speaking.

“To be true, I won’t forget the smell of them as children. They could clear a room of dwarrow with sensitive noses! We ought have used them for military training purposes.” Laughter started to bubble up from the group, who watched the dwarf woman speak with rapturous attention. “And aye, they were spirituous. In fact, I often caught them passed out on top of one another after the consumption of multiple spirits!”

The laughter was even louder at this, as every companion thought of their own moments with the brothers when they had been inebriated. Dís continued, though with a bit more sobriety in her expression.

“Truly, I won’t forget anything. I will never forget the look of joy on Fili’s small face when his brother was born. I won’t forget the way they would grapple all day from annoyance of the other only to tangle together at night. I won’t forget their steadfast love for their uncle, their devotion of me, their strength after the passing of their father. I will always hold dear even the smallest of moments--when they were putting on jokes, when they were sharing their serious passions--because that is my joy as a mother. Mahal, but I was blessed, was I not?”

There was a moment as all had to pause to wipe their eyes. It was Glóin who finally broke the silence by raising his glass of wine for a toast. A hearty cheer was given, during which Bilbo snuck out of the room with the aid of the Ring. He crept down the corridor and turned a corner before taking the Ring off and pocketing it again. Bilbo kneeled slightly, one hand steadying him on his knee while the other arm covered his eyes to wipe the tears.

 _Not your home_ , he reminded himself silently. _Not your family, not your place._

 

 

“Master Baggins?”

Bilbo awoke with a start when the unexpected voice broke through his dreams. He sat up quickly.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Lórin,” said the dwarf. He was one of those who worked in the infirmary. Bilbo jumped out of bed; his presence could only mean one thing.

“He is asking after you,” Lórin explained needlessly. Bilbo took the dwarf’s hands and squeezed them.

“Thank you for everything. I am terribly sorry, but I will now be speeding and leaving you behind.” Lórin laughed and nodded in understanding, then moved out of the way.

Bilbo wasn’t ever able to remember even a moment between leaving his chambers and reaching Thorin’s side. He had imagined this moment many times. In his most pragmatic imaginings he knew that he would likely be one of the last to be informed, and that the King would very likely be surrounded by his friends already. Bilbo imagined getting a smile, perhaps, and had resigned himself to the knowledge that he would be seated to the side, observing. He knew that this would be enough.

The reality was quite different. The room was silent and empty, lit only by a few candles at Thorin’s bedside. Bilbo was the only visitor.

_Did nobody else wake up?_

He shuffled quietly into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible out of respect for the other patients who were sleeping. Still, Bilbo somehow managed to be noticed immediately by Thorin. For years Bilbo would think of this moment in his mind when trying to capture the meaning of beauty. Truly, despite the bruises and cuts, despite the fatigue and sickness still evident in his face, there was a fire in Thorin’s face that burned brightly from within. Yes, he had the aesthetic beauty that was obvious to all who looked upon him. But, more importantly (to Bilbo, anyway) he had the palpable spark. Thorin was the energy that kept the mountain functioning, made the inhabitants move forward. Thorin was the buzz in the air before a lightning storm. Thorin, not the Arkenstone, was the heart of the mountain.

Bilbo sat down at the chair beside Thorin’s bed and smiled shyly back at the dwarf who had never stopped grinning.

“Hello, my burglar.” His voice was rough from lack of use and sounded painful, and even deeper than normal. Bilbo’s smile turned into a full-sized grin.

“At your service,” he whispered. Thorin held out his hand for Bilbo to take. When they touched Thorin brought Bilbo’s knuckles to his mouth and kissed them softly.

“Promise?” Thorin asked from under hooded eyes. Bilbo felt his entire body burn; Thorin was worse than his own sister! He sputtered and grabbed his hands back. The King would apparently need even more time to recover from whatever fever kept him so cheeky.

“Your flattery will do you no good, Thorin. I have nothing to give you,” he mumbled. Thorin gave a small chuckle and ran his gaze over Bilbo’s face, making Bilbo’s blush deepen. “Besides, the other will be here soon, and they would tease you.”

“Are they? I didn’t send for them.”

Bilbo bit his lips to hold in a gasp. _Not your home, remember, it’s very important to remember_.

“Oh! Well. In that case, it’s up to me to catch you up.”

After tomorrow the formal planning for the burial of the princes would need to begin. Within a few hours, even, the mountain would wake, and Thorin’s attention would be taken away from Bilbo to more important matters.

_Not your home, not your family, not your place._

But still, sitting beside Thorin Oakenshield, holding his gaze and telling him stories, it was nice to pretend.


	3. with the violence forever threatening the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days after Thorin's awakening are equal parts: joyful; swallowed by grief; darkened by a rising power; and then distracted by divine, delicious pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left me well-wishes so far! I actually got incredibly nervous to post this after reading so many amazing fics on AO3. I can only hope to add something good to the fandom.
> 
> On to more important matters:   
> This chapter is the first to have M-rated content, so keep this in mind.   
> I am also introducing some non-canonical elements to certain objects.

Thorin spent the first few hours after awakening basking in the golden hope and strength from holding onto Bilbo’s hands and listened to his stories. The Hobbit had always had a way with words, and while he could see conflicting emotions flittering about Bilbo’s face he selfishly allowed time to pass before he brought this up.

“Master Baggins, what vexes you? Your eyes are sad.”

These eyes then shifted back and forth, gazing hard into Thorin’s own.

“Do you not know yet?”

The reality of his nephew’s death—or, more accurately, that they had not also been offered a second chance at life—left him gasping for air and clutching at his chest. The wounds in his chest and his feet throbbed violently and nausea suddenly took over his whole body. He covered his mouth with both hands, a signal that Bilbo thankfully understood. He quickly retrieved an empty pot just in time for Thorin to vomit the dark sickness into it. Bilbo, clever Bilbo, already had a goblet of water to help clean the taste from his mouth. He could barely swallow around the tears that were streaming hot down his cheeks.

"It should have been me," he whispered. Without warning Bilbo's palm flew threw the air and slapped Thorin's cheek. A roar ripped from his throat, completely stopping his tears. He looked up and his incensed eyes met a ferocity in Bilbo's face that he had never seen there before.

"Never, _ever_ say that again, you insufferable _beast_." This was spoken slowly, with every syllable emphasized. After a few moments of silence he gave a small nod and rocked back and forth on his heels a bit. Thorin wanted to remain angry, but these small movements, so familiar from the Hobbit, sobered him.

“You are right, Hobbit,” he murmured. Bilbo scoffed, picked a handkerchief from his pocket, sat on the edge of Thorin’s bed and began to wipe at Thorin’s face. From this close up Thorin was able to see the stitching on the object was Dwarrow runes. At a pointed look at the object Bilbo flushed.

“I may have, er—”

“Burgled?”

“ _Found_ this, yes.”

Thorin’s low chuckle in response caused a sharp pain to go through his chest, though it was worth it.

“You know, _Burglar_ , I could have you beheaded for that slap.” Bilbo snorted at this. His gentle hands turned Thorin’s face towards him and allowed him to easier wipe at the traces of sweat, tears and vomit.

“Thorin, we both know that if you were to behead me you would have done it long ago.” Thorin stiffened at this, recalling suddenly the feeling of Bilbo’s throat below his own fist as he threatened to throw him from the ramparts. The Hobbit noticed this change in demeanor and stilled his movement. He sighed and tapped against Thorin’s nose with his finger.

“Stop doing that to yourself, Thorin. It wasn’t you. But you are here again, and that is all that matters.” His face softened, and he leaned to press their foreheads together. “You said you wanted to part in friendship. Well, I want you to live in friendship.”

Thorin chuckled and nuzzled into Bilbo’s—his _friend’s_ —touch.

“As you wish, Burglar.”

Bilbo pulled back, a smile on his face. “But while we’re at it, since we are friends, you should finally call me by my name.”

“As you wish...Bilbo.”

He may have imagined the way that Bilbo’s eyes dilated at this, but he did not imagine the shiver that ran through his own body at the delicious sound of that name on his own tongue.

He looked over Bilbo’s shoulder just in time to see the figure of his sister crossing the entrance to the healing hall. He smiled and reached out to clasp her hand, but was instead met with yet another slap.

“By Durin's beard—” he started to growl.

“There is a lot of that going around,” Bilbo murmured as he leaned out of Dís’ way.

“Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again, Brother,” she shouted while holding onto Thorin’s shoulders. A moment later she was in his lap, holding his body close while he groaned in pain.

“You are heavy, Sister!” he cried out to no avail. She only purposefully made her body heavier while Bilbo tried to remind her that Thorin’s stitches weren’t quite healed yet.

“You are as weak as ever, Brother. And I have earned the right to wrap around you. I would swear that the line of Durin was cursed if I did not know that it just breeds stupid men.”

Bilbo barked out a laugh from his spot back in the chair.

The next few hours were spent greeting his friends and family. Thorin treasured every moment, though not truly because of the sentiment that they were overjoyed for his life. No, it was because he could see the pain hidden in their eyes and knew that, in the upcoming days, the torrent of grief would darken all of their souls. It was best to enjoy the light while it existed.

 

 

It came to the point that putting off the burial of the princes could no longer be justified. Not that Dáin would say this to anybody, nor did he misunderstand why everybody was reluctant to get the proceedings going. There was nothing in him that could yet accept that the two brothers were _gone_ , were now in the Halls and would never again be put in danger. The two had always been so full of energy, of life, as though the soul of every glittering thing in the mountain had decided to take the form of two Dwarrow.

It was perhaps this thought that explained why such mischievous boys were never truly punished nor pushed to become any more serious than they were; they, both separate and together, represented all that could be loved by a Dwarf. Fili was the mountain itself, an embodiment of protection, of home, and of a fierce and willing heart. Kili was the gems, always moving, always shining, sometimes a gift and sometimes a burden.

It would be easier for Dáin to mourn than for others in the mountain. While he had fiercely loved his cousin’s sons he had his own family that took first priority. He was also in a better position to remain level-headed and focused on the reconstruction of Erebor. He knew that after the ceremony he would immediately be able to compartmentalize his pain to push him forward, to fuel his desire to recreate this home.

This home. This _home_! There were still moments, even a few weeks later, where his entire body would shiver and vibrate with delight upon being in the Halls. This is why he stayed focused: because he could where others couldn’t.

If Dáin could be anything it would be what he was needed to be. When he was called upon to rule and protect, he did this with honor. When he was called upon to aid in battle, he did this with ferocity. And now, he must help in every way that he can.

As luck would have it, what needs his help the most is aiding in making sure Thorin did not die on the way down to the prepared tombs. As per usual his cousin would remain obstinate in protecting his image, even to his own detriment. While he slept a grand walking aid had been constructed for him from oak with beautiful jewels inlain. On the day of the burial ceremony Thorin did indeed use the cane, but not with the necessary precaution a Dwarf should have when navigating the narrow pathways downward into the mountain.

Dáin stayed by his side by pretending to not know the way, as though he hadn’t spent every spare moment memorizing the layout of Erebor. The rest of his cousin’s Company—including, of course, that Hobbit—followed behind. When they reached the lower level where the tombs were located there were already crowds waiting for them. Dáin looked to Thorin’s face to capture in his memory the look of awe that was laid bare. Thorin had not yet been able to truly appreciate the throngs of people who had already arrived, having spent all of his time in the past few days resting in his newly-reconstructed and renovated royal living quarters. This was the first time that he was able to see Thorin as the King Under the Mountain, amongst his people.

To Dáin’s surprise, though, there were much more than just the dwarrow citizens of Erebor present. He had to turn about to see it all; there were Elves and Men in great numbers watching from every raised area that could still have a view of the tomb. Their distance spoke of respect, though there were a few outliers; the man Bard stood beside the elf-king Thranduil near the entrance. The elf-prince Legolas was also standing close, besides the elf-warrior Tauriel who had stayed ever-present near the temporary resting place of the princes. To Dáin’s surprise Thorin welcomed each of these, even the elves, with a gracious smile and thanks.

Once the ceremony was underway there was little that didn’t go according to customs. There were first gifts laid inside the tomb after prayers in Khuzdul were spoken over them. Then, the closest surviving family members—in this instance Thorin and Dís—sipped a bitter ale from a gold cup, then poured equal parts into chalices placed upon the stone caskets. The door to the tomb was then closed and sealed with golden locks. After this all were allowed to come up and pray at the door while a song was sung in their honor. And then, naturally, there was a feast held after the ceremony closed out open to all.

Indeed, all of the traditional moments had come and passed. However there were a few things that made this a special, very different burial. The flashiest of these were the small fireworks set off by the wizard Gandalf, who promised that he had chosen the favorites of the brothers. There was also, of course, a round of surprise and laughter when Dís grasped Tauriel and pulled her in close after having been presented with Kili’s rune stone.

(Later, Dáin smiled as he witnessed his cousin re-braiding the elf’s hair and slipping a few royal beads into it. He looked away politely when the two succumed to tears, but was happy nonetheless that they had found each other. He knew that the road in front of Dís was long and painful, and that having somebody around that knew of this love—even an unusual companion such as a she-elf—would only help.)

And then there was, of course, the Hobbit. For a being so small he was certainly adept at garnering attention. At one point in the feast he was pushed atop a table by Bofur. After a few sputtering complaints he quieted, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke it was loud and clear. To the surprise of all he had composed a poem in honor of Fili and Kili, and by the time he had finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the mountain.

The Hobbit had, of course, long since endeared himself to those that mattered. After this show Dáin was sure there wasn’t a citizen of Erebor that did not count him as an ally, a friend, and a welcome addition.

But not every citizen got to see what Dáin saw from his vantage point behind the Company the table sat at. No, it was only Dáin who noticed the way Thorin’s hands gripped tight at Bilbo’s under the table. This, after all, was a shame; it was only Dáin who could witness the first true glimmer of hope for Erebor.

 

 

Thorin waited three days for Bilbo to visit his chambers before he grew too impatient. The ceremony had taken a lot out of Thorin’s body, both emotionally and physically. Much to his embarrassment he had fallen asleep during the feast and had to be carried up several flights to his new room, the room that had once belonged to his grandfather. Those who had worked on it for him had done an amazing job of merging the mountain’s history with Thorin’s own tastes (he was sure that this was due to some direction from Balin). The furniture was mostly the same but for the addition of several decorative pieces made from Oak. The room was now also adorned with his furs that draped over his bed, the chairs, and even the ground. On the mantle to his fireplace were the illustrations of his family, which he had spent quite a lot of time admiring from his bed.

(Dís, however, did not appreciate these pictures as much. According to her she looked “ghastly,” which only served to endear him to the painting that much more.)

And, of course, the Arkenstone was also placed upon the mantle.

The room had many admirers at first. Nori, Dori, and Ori had been the first to explore for him the parts he could not yet reach, resulting in Ori finding several tomes that Thorin left to the younger dwarf’s care. Glóin and Óin had, of course, walked through the room testing out the sturdiness of the furniture. Dwalin and Balin had visited to give him details of the goings-on in the mountain and to enjoy the comfort of his chairs. And then there was the boisterous visit of Bofur, Bifur and Bombur that had Thorin almost ready to be sealed into his room if only to keep the noise and food stains at bay.

And yet there was no Bilbo.

He broke on the third day, finally. After his evening meeting with Dwalin and Balin came to a close, he waited for Dwalin to exit before calling his advisor back into the room.

“Did you need assistance with anything, Thorin?”

Thorin looked down at his own hands in his lap and tried to ignore the heat creeping up his face.

“Is the halfling still here?”

“Of course he is. Has he not visited you?”

Thorin shrugged a single shoulder and looked past Balin to the door.

“Not that it matters much, but no. I simply wanted to inquire as to if he had crept away in the night.”

Balin snorted and clapped Thorin on the shoulder.

“I will fetch him for you.”

“That is unnecessary—”

But Balin had already left the room with a chuckle. Suddenly Thorin was left alone with his thoughts, all of which were wondering why he suddenly felt nervous, whether Bilbo would like his room, and if there was anything he could do to make himself more attractive before his Hobbit arrived. At a loss he ended up adjusting and readjusting his shirt and his blankets, wondering what flashes of skin and what position would look the most inviting without becoming lewd.

Before long there was a knock at the door and all thoughts of control over his emotions or body were lost.

“Come in,” he called out, his voice much louder than he had anticipated. Because of this he didn’t blame the scared look on Bilbo’s face when he entered.

“Balin said that you needed me for something?”

Thorin couldn’t hold back the smile on his face. For the first time since since learning of his nephew’s death there was warmth beginning to grow in his body again.

“Come sit by me, Master Baggins,” he called out. Bilbo frowned and looked nervous, but entered all the same, eventually sitting in the chair closest to Thorin’s bed. “I want to hear your opinions on my mountain.”

Bilbo hummed in thought and tapped his toes twice on the ground.

“It is quite grand. The halls are vast, the food is plentiful. I admit that I didn’t think that I would ever find a mountain beautiful, but...yes, it truly is.” He then smirked and playfully poked at Thorin’s hand. “But as you personally have done _nothing_ for it yet, I can’t say it’s really _yours_.”

Thorin frowned and puffed out his chest, which made Bilbo’s laughter burst out.

“I am only teasing, Thorin! Nobody would be here were it not for your bravery. It is becoming a fine home.”

At that word Thorin grinned and held his hand out for Bilbo to take. When the Hobbit did Thorin entwined their fingers.

“I’m happy to hear you speak of it as ‘home,’” he whispered. Several emotions flickered across Bilbo’s face in quick succession, none of which looked particularly positive nor happy.

“Erm, well, I understand that it is not _my_ home, of course. I wouldn't presume that it could be.”

Thorin frowned and squeezed Bilbo’s hand. “Why would you think it could not be?”

Bilbo looked at their hands where they were joined and rubbed his thumb—so small, but strong, and course—against Thorin’s.

“‘Go back to your books,’” he began to parrot Thorin’s previous words on what he thought would be his death bed. “‘And your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow.’”

“No, Bilbo, _no_ ,” Thorin ground out. He was surprised at the emotion in his own voice, but it was suddenly very urgent that he be earnest and strong. “Please don’t misunderstand. I thought that was what you wanted, not what I wanted, not what I _want_.”

Bilbo looked down and sucked in a rough breath.

“What is it...what is it that you want of me, Thorin?”

That was an easy question with a very complicated answer. He wanted so much, but felt that he had lost his right to ask for any of it. Still, he was of Durin’s line, and if there were ever a time to show bravery it was this moment.

“I want you to feel at home, here. And, well. I want you to feel at home with me.”

Bilbo gasped but then grinned. The hand not connected to Thorin’s rubbed at Bilbo’s eyes, which he could now see were bright with tears.

“I also want—”

But the sentence stopped. Thorin looked up in concern, then looked where Bilbo’s gaze was pointed. His stomach shouted in pain as he saw that Bilbo was looking hard at mantle,and at the Arkenstone.

“Bilbo, I can—”

Bilbo pulled his hand away and stumbled out of the chair.

“This is a mistake,” he whispered as he turned away. Thorin’s vision suddenly tunneled, turning dark at the edges. Before he was aware of his own motions he was staggering out of the bed, his body and wounds screaming at him. He was suddenly gripping Bilbo, holding him back from leaving. 

“Do you doubt my words, Hobbit? Do you not believe me when I say that I want you here, with me? What would you have me do, Master Baggins? Would you have me apologize in front of the whole of the mountain? Would you have me give up my throne?” He grabbed the Arkenstone from its place on his mantle and shook it in the air in his fist. “Would you have me destroy this?”

“Thorin, no—”

“This is my second chance, and I will not waste it! Hobbit, I will prove my dedication to you whether you want me to or not,” Thorin snarled. Ignoring the searing pain in his chest he threw open the door to his quarters and stormed down the hall. He moved quickly, though his legs almost gave out from the exertion. The sound of Bilbo calling his name came from behind, but all he could hear was the shadow of a memory from before, of chasing Dís down the same passageway when she was a wee thing. It seemed fitting to him, the symmetry; in both instances he was putting everything on the line to save what was most precious.

Bilbo finally caught up with him and grabbed at Thorin’s arm just in time to watch the stone fly in an arc through the air and down into the darkness of the mountain. Thorin’s body lurched forward, nearly toppling over, before he was pulled back by Bilbo and shoved against the wall.

“You _idiot_ , you big _idiot_ ,” Bilbo growled as he grabbed at Thorin’s arms. Thorin winced; the grip was surprisingly strong and brought back to his body the pain in his wound from exertion. “You have nothing to atone for. All I wanted was for you to be _alive_ , and you _are_ , and I...”

The Hobbit paused, huffed, and then pulled down at Thorin’s shoulders. Their lips crashed together in a dry, hard kiss. Before either could second guess anything Thorin wrapped his arms around the Hobbit— _his_ Hobbit—and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. And _oh_ , but this was exactly what he had been panting for from the moment Erebor had been won from Smaug. This was the feeling that was right, was full, and was full of promise. He swept his tongue along Bilbo's lips and began his worship of that clever mouth. Small, skilled hands gripped Thorin’s braids and pulled him down even further, then tangled in the hair at the base of Thorin’s skull as he lightly scratched.

The first moan, loud enough to echo through the hall, surprised them both. Thorin pulled back and stared down at Bilbo, eyes wide. The Hobbit licked his lips and roamed his eyes over Thorin’s face and body, his hands gently squeezing Thorin’s shoulders.

“You...you want me, Bilbo?”

“More than anything,” Bilbo replied.

“You know, I should lay down. Because of the pain,” Thorin murmured, eyes searching Bilbo’s. The Hobbit nodded and swallowed thickly.

“If we lay _together_ , it might distract you from the pain,” he whispered.

“ _Yes_." There was a quick flash of a smile from the Hobbit before they were kissing again and stumbling back into Thorin’s bedroom.

 

 

“When will your family arrive?” Glóin escorted Dáin to his living quarters, which were held in a wing set up below the royal wing in the mountain.

“Within the next fortnight I’m told,” he responded. “And when will we get to see young Master Gimli?”

Glóin grinned and puffed his chest out.

“Aye, about the same time.”

They passed the rest of the time swapping stories of their children’s antics (“did your little Thorin hurt anyone when he first started his battle training?” “Remind me to not let Gimli near an axe while I am here…”) until they reached the doorway to Dáin’s chamber. They gave an affectionate forehead-bump to one another and Dáin watched as Glóin left, presumably to return to his own quarters. It had been a long, difficult week for all of the dwarrow, not only emotionally after the princes were laid to rest but also physically while the rebuilding of Erebor continued. Dáin felt his own fatigue like a cape around his whole body, slowly growing more heavy. He longed for the moment when he could once again hold his wife and son in his arms.

It was because of this fatigue that he at first disbelieved his eyes when he spotted a faint glow in the darkened corner, only a few yards away from his room. Slowly—and only after looking about to see if there were eyes watching him—he moved forward to inspect the glow.

“ _Mahal_ ,” he whispered when he finally came upon the objects. It was the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, nestled quietly in the darkness in front of his room. He went to pick it up, thinking that he should return it immediately to Thorin’s chamber. However, the moment his fingers touched the stone he felt an electric shock go through him as his whole body buzzed with energy. This was enough to almost make him drop it right there and let it roll over the edge and down, down into the darkness.

Instead he carried it swiftly and quietly into his room. Dáin wrapped the stone in a heavy cloak and pushed it deep into the chamber’s dresser. Sleep did not come easily that night, nor did it come before his eyes grew tired and red from the strain of staring at the dresser in the dark.

 

 

Thorin's groaned low in his chest as the Hobbit started undressing on his lap back in Thorin’s chambers. Bilbo had been right about one thing: this was certainly a distraction from the pain.

“Bilbo—” he choked out as his burglar ran his hands down Thorin's chest. “Bilbo, we should talk first. We can wait. We can wait until I can do more than lay here. I want to—”

“Curse your ideas of propriety, Thorin,” Bilbo scoffed as he pushed his own braces down and started to unbutton his trousers. “I can lead. I _can’t_ wait.”

The slowly exposed skin of the Hobbit was tantalizing. Thorin's shaking hands grabbed at Bilbo's sides and gently pulled him down until their faces were close enough to feel shared breaths. He softly pushed his forehead to Bilbo's and nuzzled against it.

“I concede,” he whispered. Bilbo smiled and began a snide sentence—likely something about this being a first—but this was quickly turned into a moan as Thorin took Bilbo's mouth in a rough kiss. His limited mobility was frustrating; Thorin longed to flip their bodies over and ravage Bible's body until he could no longer move or make words; he had not anticipated the reverse, that the Hobbit could reduce him to such lewd sounds and take his sense away with nothing more than a skilled tongue and moving hips.

There was a pause in activities at Thorin's request so that Bill could finish undressing and then help the dwarf do the same. This reprieve was short-lived; almost immediately he was back on Thorin’s lap, rubbing sweet-smelling oil onto Thorin’s fingers.

“Prepare me,” Bilbo whispered, a mischievous smirk on his face. He should have guessed that Bilbo would challenge him even as a lover, Hobbit manners be damned.

“Hold yourself still,” he murmured. One hand grasped Bilbo's thigh to help steady him as his first finger beached the entrance.  Thorin enjoyed the show above him, of a squirming Bilbo with head thrown back and mouth open in a silent moan. Finally, he was pliant in Thorin's arms and the dwarf planned to enjoy every second of it. He took his time preparing Bilbo, ignoring the pleading words pouring from his Hobbit’s mouth to go quicker, faster, that he couldn’t wait. In response Thorin withdrew his finger and tugged gently at Bilbo’s naked thighs.

“I can't—I need—”

“Scoot forward,” Thorin whispered. Bilbo looked uncertain, but he readjusted to come closer. The dwarf pulled him forward (ignoring the catch in his chest and twinges of pain from the movement) until he was able to lean up and lick a hot stripe along the underside of Bilbo's erection. Bilbo’s whole body trembled at this, holding himself back from thrusting roughly into Thorin’s mouth. Instead he ran his hands through Thorin’s hair at his temples and let out shaky breaths as Thorin continued to prepare his lover while also pleasuring him orally.

It was only a few more minutes before the dwarf could easily slide three fingers in and out of Bilbo. He withdrew his mouth from Bilbo’s erection and gave it a few lazy strokes.

“You are ready, _ghivashel_.”

He held his own cock steady as Bilbo arranged his body above him. At the first breach Thorin was sure that this was a mistake, only because the tight, hot grip of the Hobbit's body felt like it would wring an orgasm out of him too soon. He choked back a sob as Bilbo sunk down, down until he was fully inside. The Hobbit paused then and doubled in half in order to give wet, filthy kisses.

“Don't move,” he whispered against Thorin's mouth. Without warning he reached forward to brace a hand against the wall behind the bed and then began to move. And _Mahal_ but his body was amazing. He was skillful at this, at riding Thorin’s cock, the lifting and the greedy taking. His undulations had Thorin’s eyes rolling back in his head as he groaned out broken curses in Khuzdul while pumping Bilbo’s cock in his hand. Not surprisingly it wasn’t long before Bilbo’s rhythm stuttered and he came with a broken, sobbing moan.

Somehow, Thorin held out through all of this, even the delicious clenching from Bilbo’s orgasm. It wasn’t until Bilbo bent and whispered “my King” against his ear that Thorin’s orgasm hit, hard. His fingers at Bilbo’s hips contracted roughly, leaving what he was sure would be bruises and half-moon shapes that would last for days as evidence of their lovemaking.

Bilbo carefully climbed off of Thorin’s lap with some help from the Dwarf’s guiding hands. Before Bilbo could hesitate Thorin maneuvered his arm to pull his Hobbit in tight, fingers softly combing through the short curls.

“You were right,” Thorin conceded.

“I often am.”

“There was no need to wait. And, truly, I should not have pretended for so long that I could.”

A grin in the dark. For someone who had just performed dirty, pushy sex Bilbo became quite tender in the aftermath. He left the bed only long enough to retreat to the washroom to clean himself. He came back with a soft rag and tenderly wiped Thorin’s chest until clean. He chased every swipe with a kiss until he had laved his tongue against what felt like every measurable part of Thorin’s chest and neck. It took a few long moments before Thorin realized that Bilbo was paying even more attention to the river of scars on his body, a map of his history, victories, and life. When Bilbo came to his most recent wound he pulled back to just look at it, then ducked his head down. When he finally looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

Words weren’t needed. Thorin cocked his head up in a “come here” motion, and Bilbo complied. They fell asleep together amidst many lazy kisses. That night Thorin dreamt of a life with Bilbo at his side, ruling Erebor together. This would be their home, could be their home, and that thought was more precious than any gemstone in the mountain.

 

 

_It is yours._

Dáin awoke with a start. The room, normally completely dark, was lit with a blue glow. He looked to the large dresser against the wall, which appeared to be completely surrounded by the glow. On shaky legs he walked to the drawer where he had stashed the stone after finding it outside his room. Once he pulled at the drawer the unearthly light in the room dimmed as it all retreated to the stone.

_It is yours. I am yours._

Dáin grabbed the stone and retreated to his bed again. He held it tight against his chest, feeling the slow _pump, pump_ of the beating of the heart of the mountain as it synced with his own.

_It is yours. I am yours. You need to take it._

 

 


	4. even if this hall collapses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happiness of Bilbo and Thorin are threatened as a dark plot is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everybody who has stuck with me so far! This chapter brings to a close Part 1 of four. 
> 
> A trigger warning applies in this chapter for violence.

It started as a small vibration from the North. The disruption was so small, as though the lightest string of a small harp had been plucked but once. But, as such things are wont to do, this motion did not stop there. 

Most in Valinor experienced this disturbance as purely tactile. For these they knew this _pluck_ as a precursor. Within seconds there was the unmistakable sound of approaching winds. Oh but the winds were fast, whipping the leaves of the ground into a frenzy. This gave way to darkening clouds that gave forth a deep moan that sounded like a tear being ripped into the very fabric of existence. The wind rose, even knocking over some that are in the middle of the sudden storm. The two forces -- the wind and the cloud -- dueled above the heads of the spectators. This clash seemed fruitless ; they were too well matched. It wasn't until a third stepped in. This was a dramatic shift in temperature as all to see these happenings broke into an immediate sweat. The world was now quite humid. It became clear, quite literally, that this was because a beautiful, glowing heat source was making the cloud dissipate. All that remained was the wind, which settled into a cool breeze. After what felt like only a moment it was as though nothing had ever happened. This feeling was so strong that these  witnesses felt suddenly convinced that nothing had happened after all. All that remained was a lingering scent of rain and flowers that clung to their bodies longer than scents should.

Those who were closer to the magic in the world experienced this phenomenon visually, in the skies above. What was normally a pure blue began to take on different hues. It started as an approaching streak of deep, royal blue that shimmered silver as it moved through different light. Its battle was not with a cloud, but with the entire sky darkening. It was suddenly pitch-black to those who could see this with only the occasional silver illumination through the darkness. Soon, though, tiny beams of yellow began to crack holes in the black vastness until the entire thing crumbled, appearing to fall onto the heads of the witnesses before disappearing as a fine, receding mist. What was left was a spinning dais, pulsing and glowing the strong yellow. In its center, nuzzled in deep, was the blue light, before these lights also faded away. These witnesses, too, could explain this phenomenon to themselves only as an illusion, and their memories too faded.

It was only the Valar who experienced the true action in its form, an experience so visceral that it could never be forgotten. It was only with their consciousness that the music could be heard. Their attention was immediately piqued at that small, beginning _pluck_ from the North. It was a tune they had all heard by now, twice before. This was the music from the creation of the Aulëson known as Thorin Oakenshield. The harp sounds became louder and clearer for the fourth time now, this time—as it had been the last two times—as it was accompanied by Eru’s harmonizing vibrations before the latter faded away. Then, suddenly, dissonance. Their ears rang with the discord voice of Melkor’s servant Sauron. There was nothing but blinding pain as the musical beings fought one another, growing to a shrieking, pitch that felt like sharp claws digging into the soul. The sudden addition of other voices grew louder until they neutralized Sauron’s blasts. There were ten additional voices in total, ones that sung of Elven blood, Dwarrow blood, the blood of Men, and then, curiously, multiple voices from that curious offshoot known in Arda as _Hobbits._ After Sauron’s voice was no longer most of these voices also faded until all that was left was Thorin’s harp and a sweet, accompanying melody of a violin. The song they sang together was very clearly to all who experienced it a message of faithfulness, of fierceness, and of love. 

When silence finally fell, Yavanna broke out into long, loud bouts of laughter. Aüle scowled at his wife and contemplated how many times he would need to throw his great hammer around before his feelings would cool.

“I won the bet, Husband,” she finally spoke through her laughter. He frowned and grumbled, knowing that his hammer would actually need to be used for crafting beautiful headware for his wife. But truly, even he could not have anticipated that Eru would show special favor to Thorin once again, nor that another soul would eventually be Thorin’s One. 

“At the least one would think he would have given up on that being. His recklessness has pushed him close to death too many times.” 

Yavanna smiled and kissed her husband’s forehead.

“Sounds like he inherited much from the Father of his people.”

He grumbled and tried to pull away, but before he could she pulled down on his beard to bump their foreheads together.

“You should be happy for your Child. You know that you show favoritism toward him as well.”

Aüle sighed and nodded, taking her hands and kissing the knuckles.

“You are right again. I do worry about the balance, of how this only makes the threat of evil more strong.”

Yavanna hummed at this. “I agree. But do remember, Beloved, that he had much help both in Arda and among us. And now it appears that he has his One as well. Even Melkor himself cannot break that bond.” 

 

Bilbo ignored the snickering behind him, from Thorin’s bed, as he tried to keep his face neutral and serious. He was, of course, failing completely, making Bofur grin.

“So Thorin would like for a few days of recuperation, you say?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, shuffling his feet. “The past few days have taken a lot out of him. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. Needs his rest and all.”

“Oh aye, I understand. And yet he would like your company during this time.”

“Well, I…yes. Somebody needs to watch over him, check for fevers, all of that.”

Bofur let out a loud laugh at this. “Cause fevers, more like it!”

Bilbo opened and shut his mouth a few times and sputtered. He could feel his face growing hotter.

“Don’t worry Master Baggins, I will inform the rest to not interrupt your hammering.” With a wink and a chuckle he then left the doorway. Bilbo watched him retreat and even meet up with another dwarrow down the hallway. Bofur leaned in and whispered to this other dwarf, who reared back and laughed. 

Bilbo returned to Thorin’s bed with a frown and a thoroughly flushed face. Thorin was now sitting up in bed, supported by several pillows, his naked body scandalously uncovered. He was grinning as he pulled Bilbo back into bed and onto his lap.

“It appears everyone in Erebor will know within the hour,” Bilbo grumbled. Thorin grinned and nuzzled into Bilbo’s neck. The feeling of the beard—not to mention the person doing it—sent a shiver down the Hobbit’s back. 

“Good. It’s better that my kingdom be aware that the hero Hobbit is not available for courting.”

Bilbo scoffed and squeezed Thorin’s shoulders. The dwarf was now undoing the ties of the Hobbit’s shirt to gain better access to the skin of his collarbone and chest. 

“It is not as though you have competition, Thorin.”

Thorn pulled back to look Bilbo in the eyes. “You don’t see the gazes upon you, then, as you walk these halls?” 

Bilbo squirmed under his gaze, rolling his eyes.

“That is because I am a Hobbit and an outsider. People will look.”

“You are wrong. You are respectable. You have accomplished many brave things. Your stories will be sung in these halls for eras to come. The younger even speak of your hair that shines like gold in the mountain, of your eyes that are like our gems. In short you are considered very—“ He paused then to run his hands down Bilbo’s back to his cheeks, which he grabbed while rocking his own hips up to bring their pelvises together. “ _Desirable._ ”

Bilbo let out a low moan. The feeling of Thorin’s noticeable hardness made his own begin to swell. He looked down with hooded eyes at the royalty he straddled. It was ridiculous to him that anybody should look at his own self with appreciation, especially next to Thorin. There was no denying how completely and utterly attractive this King was; his broad shoulder and chest, his defined muscles, the cut of his hips that led to his cock—it was almost too beautiful to look at. It was quite baffling to Bilbo why such a being could ever be with someone such as the Hobbit, but he was determined to enjoy every delicious moment of the attention.

“I still don’t believe you, but I do enjoy the result of your jealousy,” he commented. Thorin laughed and pulled Bilbo’s body forward to bring their mouths together for a filthy kiss. By _all the gods_ but Thorin was talented at this. Bilbo opened his mouth wider to allow for the bold tongue to explore. When they finally pulled apart Bilbo was panting and Thorin was smiling, the smug bastard.

“It is a wonder that the brazen Hobbit who seduced me so commandingly only last night would now blush in my arms at the simplest attention.” 

“We can switch off, perhaps,” Bilbo gasped as Thorin pressed hot, wet kisses down his throat. 

“That we will, Bilbo.” In a flash Bilbo found himself on his back, pressed into the soft furs on the bed. Thorin was now above him, his long hair teasing against Bilbo’s naked skin.

“Thorin! Are you sure you can move like this? Your wound—“

“We won’t know unless we try,” he said between kisses as he worked his way down Bilbo’s body. “My body’s recovery should be measured in the many ways in which I will have you.”

“I am yours to conquer, my King,” Bilbo moaned. At this honorific Thorin let out a low groan. This deepness of voice was quickly becoming an aphrodisiac to the Hobbit. He sighed happily as his leg was maneuvered over Thorin’s shoulder, the promise of pleasure to come. 

It was a truly taxing assignment, watching over Thorin’s recovery. But somebody had to do it. 

 

Dís sputtered from choking on her own hair, the victim of the whiplash from the movement of her head. The rest of the Company looked concerned—Ori even reached out and asked if she needed help—but she just swatted the concern away and picked the hair from her mouth. Even through all of this she couldn’t stop laughing.

“Come on, boys. I believe I have won the pool.”

“And I,” Gandalf reminded. She grinned and winked at the wizard as the other dwarrow chucked their gold bags at the pair

“Lucky guess,” Dwalin grumbled.

“I thought they would wait until after the coronation at least,” Balin added.

Gandalf shrugged and pocketed the gold. “I am more surprised that he made no attempt to hide it.”

“It wouldn’t have worked anyway,” Óin pointed out. “He has never been one for subtlety.” The Company snorted at this and nodded to each other.

“Remember that tryst with the smith in the Blue Mountains?” Dori asked with a chuckle. “And the  gem cutter?”

Dís had to hold her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter at these memories. Thorin’s short-lived romantic misadventures were rather infamous in certain circles. It wasn’t as though they had much substance to speak of; the smith had been a fetching, flirty lad and the gem cutter had been an especially beautiful lass who shared his disposition. Both relationships (if they could truly be called this) had been short-lived and passionate, but ultimately ended because Thorin had not been one to value compatibility (or discretion, for that matter; Dís had been trying to scrub her mind of the sight of too many sweaty dwarrow-parts from her mind unsuccessfully for fifty years) of personality when finding bed-partners.

Of course the difference in this instance was that Thorin was breaking his fifty-year long vow to celibacy. He had pledged to his sister and nephews that he would never again open his heart until it was his One.

“Yes, but this time is different. We all know it,” Bombur chuckled. 

“And so romantic,” Ori sighed. (This caused sudden overprotective glances from Nori and Dori, naturally, much to Dís amusement.)

“Yes, yes, enough about my silly brother’s hammering. Now who will be the one charged with leaving food and drink outside the door?”

With amazing speed the dwarrow rushed to press a fingertip to their nose. The last one was Bifur, who—after begging to be released of this charge—left to deliver the sustenance with a long stream of curses in Khuzdul. 

“Well!” Dís boomed to the table. “As my brother is otherwise engaged it is up to us to plan the coronation. Let’s get to work, Company.”

 

The hours together seemed nearly countless then, though Bilbo was quite well aware that it had only been a few days. In this time he had memorized Thorin’s form from nearly every angle, cataloging it in his mind should he ever need to rely on memories alone. He had traced the lines of the dwarrow’s face with his eyes (and sometimes his hands) so many times that it felt already like one of his own beloved maps. He knew intimately the soft give of those lips as they pressed against Bilbo’s fingers. He had seen Thorin’s entire body laid bare, and yet he was still the most taken aback and moved from the way Thorin would gaze upon his face. Whether they were clothed or not those eyes, those long gazes and the shameless affection in them made Bilbo’s breath catch every time. It was the same gaze he had felt when he showed the acorn to Thorin what seemed like so long ago, but it was only now that they both could admit what had been behind those looks even then.

“When did you know?” Bilbo had asked, quietly and nervously. His hair was wet and likely sticking up into weird shapes, but Thorin didn’t seem to mind as he ran his hands through it. Thorin had regained much of his body’s range of motion, something that both took pleasure in exploring.

“You are asking the wrong question, Lover.” Bilbo quirked an eyebrow at this, but silently waited for Thorin to continue speaking. “I did not truly _know_ until I was showed, until I awoke alive again in your arms. But that is not when the feelings began. I have long cherished you, Bilbo, from afar, and now I get to cherish you much closer.”

“Much closer indeed,” Bilbo chuckled. He nuzzled his flushed cheeks into Thorin’s chest. He had come to truly appreciate the friction of body hair when it rubbed against him. 

“And what about you, my Hobbit? When did _you_ know?” Thorin asked cheekily. 

“Know what?” Bilbo feigned ignorance. “Know that you are a grumpy, stubborn, old dwarf? From the beginning, I suppose.”

Thorin growled and tweaked the tip of Bilbo’s exposed ear, hard. The Hobbit yelped and bit Thorin’s nipple in retaliation. A short scuffle ensued, ending in Thorin giving _that look_ as he gazed down at Bilbo. Bilbo bit his lip. Honesty it was, then.

“I felt deeply for you, Thorin, from almost the beginning. But I didn’t know what that _meant_ until I was alone in Dale, crying at the thought of losing you forever. I still thought that…well, even if I couldn’t have you romantically—because why would you have me?—if I could protect you and keep you alive that would be alright. It would be worth it.”

Thorin’s gaze searched his own, suddenly quite serious. “You would give up so much for me, Bilbo?” The Hobbit huffed out a small laugh at this.

“Yes, of course. You should, well, you should know that by now. You have been the protector your whole life, Thorin. It would be my honor to protect _you_.”

He wished almost immediately that he could take it back after seeing the look in Thorin’s eyes. That was love, plain and simple, and the terrifying reality is that it is only a mirror of the love in Bilbo’s eyes as well. This was much scarier, to be faced quite literally with such a thing. Bilbo’s heart didn’t stutter this much coming up against cave trolls, against Smaug even. Then there was only his life at risk; with this is seemed his entire body, mind and soul was at risk. He shuddered slightly to think of what his life would have been if Thorin had perished.

No, this was a moment for Bilbo to remind himself: this was Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, rightful heir to the great kingdom of Erebor. What mattered the most now was this, was his ascension to the crown. What mattered was his family. And if Bilbo ever became a distraction to that end? Well, Bilbo had dealt with the heartbreak once before, and he would sacrifice everything—even his entire body, mind and soul—if he ever had to. 

He smiled and looked away to break the gaze, then pretended that he couldn’t see Thorin’s confusion. Bilbo thought of the locket he had found and suddenly wanted to retrieve it, to remind Thorin of his rightful priority.

“Thorin, I have a gift for you.”

The dwarrow grinned and ran a hand down Bilbo’s chest, aiming for his groin. “And I shall take it.” 

Bilbo laughed and pushed the wandering hands away. “No, in my chambers. I have to get it for you.”

The pout on his King’s face was ridiculous enough to rival the pathetic pout of a wee Shireling. “Then I shall carry you down the hall so that my hands don’t depart from your body.”

Bilbo tugged sharp and fast at one of Thorin’s braids until a low whine came from the dwarf. 

“Thorin, I demand that you let me get you your gift!”

The dwarf growled but rolled over so that Bilbo could exit the bed. Bilbo chucked and redressed, giving a quick pat to his vest pocket to check positively that his ring was still in there. 

“I am allowing you to leave, Bilbo,” Thorin called out as Bilbo walked to the door to exit. “But know that I will be counting the seconds until I see your nakedness again, and for each second you owe me a kiss.”

“So ordered!” Bilbo called over his shoulder as he left the room. 

When he reached the end of the hallway where the entrance to the main hall began he started to hear faint whispering. While he would normally assume this to be indicative of prancing friends there was something darker and more sinister in this voice, something he hadn't heard since Thorin's dragon sickness. After a quick look-around to ensure that he was alone Bobo slipped his Ring on. 

Down he walked, down steep stairs to the next level below. Beyond the dim gray of his vision he saw a blindingly bright blue light coming from a door that was ajar. He strained his ears to hear as he crept forward slowly.

"Unfit...weak...sickness..."

The barest glimpses into the conversation were already enough to chill him down to his bones. Bilbo had not prepared for the idea of darkness finding its way to Error so soon.

When he reached the door it was too shut for him to see inside, and too heavy to move without attracting attention. Bilbo stood close but flattened himself against the wall near the opening. His attempts at glimpsing who was speaking were thwarted by the damn light. 

“But what do you plan to do about it,” the first voice asked. “The coronation is next week, and he is always protected by his friends and lover.”

“They cannot watch him forever. We must wait and be vigilant. Our time will come.” This second voice was familiar, unlike the first, though Bilbo could not place it. 

A third voice chimed in, this one clearly belonging to a dwarrow lass. “Do you really plan to hurt Thorin?” 

“I plan to _kill_ Thorin.”

Bilbo’s already narrow vision seemed to darken at this, becoming even more fuzzy. He felt himself grow pale and dizzy, and in this stupor he accidentally lost his footing and sent several pebbles scurrying in all directions. 

“Did you hear that?”

With haste Bilbo moved as quietly as he could away from the door, still clinging to the wall. He was happy for this extra support when the door opened further and he could finally see who had been speaking , and where that light was coming from.

_Dáin._ Holding the Arkenstone.

Bilbo couldn’t remember those next few moments, or how he found himself a whole hallway away from Dáin’s door. He also did not remember taking off the ring, but it became quite obvious that he was indeed visible when a large hand gripped his shoulder. Bilbo flinched and looked up, ready to fight should he need to.

It was Gandalf, with a worried look in his eyes.

“Why are you weeping, Bilbo?”

“It’s Dáin,” Bilbo whispered. “He plans to murder Thorin.”

 

“Let’s go over the plan again,” Gandalf ordered. Bilbo squirmed in his spot on the wall, away from the group of dwarrow in Thorin’s bedchambers. He wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could take this before he lost his mind.

It had been a week since he heard of Dáin’s plot. He let Gandalf be the informer of the Company and Dís, and even Thorin when Bilbo found that he couldn’t speak clearly enough. He felt weak and defeated; he had fought monsters and brought down powerful beings, but he couldn’t tell the being he loved what he needed to know to be protected. It was exhausting. 

Thank Eru there had been Gandalf and the organization of dwarrow or Bilbo—and quite possibly Thorin—would be lost right now. 

The plan was to appear to continue with sorting out the coronation, though in truth they were focusing on ways to watch Dáin in the act. Further instances of snooping had confirmed several facts: Dáin and his converts (who all appeared to be under the influence of the Arkenstone) intended to block off Thorin’s entire wing the night before the coronation. They planned to strangle him and make it look as though it had been a suicide, presumably from grief over his nephew’s deaths. This would allow for the coronation to continue on schedule—after all, all of the decor and food would have already been prepared—but with a new King in Thorin’s stead.

It was up to the Company to stop this from happening.

Of course, Bilbo was a mite more realistic without the bravado of being a dwarf. And so in secret he began to collect small chunks of gold, some valuable gems, and personal family pieces that he thought Thorin would want with him should they have to flee. And this was always a distinct possibility; if Dáin could not be stopped then Thorin’s life was too at risk in Erebor, and while Bilbo would lay down his own life he didn’t think it would be seen as an appropriate substitute. While Bilbo was sure that he had kept relatively secretive about it there were times when Gandalf would give him a knowing glance and wink; in this way Bilbo was somewhat heartened to know that his wizard friend would be there to aid them, should they need it. 

“—and Balin will be hiding in the washroom. Should Dáin manage to get past the three separate groups of our company then he will ultimately be stopped inside these chambers. And please, remember my friends, it is very important to me that he stay alive. You know as well as I that this sickness is only temporary.”

Bilbo’s heart lurched at this. One of the most painful things had been seeing the look of confusion and betrayal on Thorin’s face when he had heard that it was his own cousin who plotted against him. Bilbo had held Thorin that night and kissed his cheeks, nose, forehead, and lips, reminding him that the Arkenstone and goldlust could cause unnatural actions. He kissed the idea into Thorin’s mind that everything could be made right.

Though he secretly began to keep a small dagger on his body for this night, just in case the need arose. 

Dís’ name brought him back to the present. Bilbo looked about the room and realized that she was not in attendance yet. 

“Excuse me,” he called out loudly. “Where is Dís?”

The room went silent as every dwarf looked around and came to the same conclusion that Bilbo had. Before disruption could occur, Bilbo spoke up once again.

“I will go seek her out. You lot carry on.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin grunted. “For the love of Mahal stay safe. I will come find you if you aren’t back in five minutes.”

Bilbo grinned and gave a small bow.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

He left the room and immediately slipped on the ring. Dís’ room was at the other end of the royal wing, further away from where their rooms had been as children. Bilbo knew that it wouldn’t be long before Dáin and his people would be ambushing these halls, so his invisibility was the only right precaution to take at the time.

As he got closer to her rooms he heard something beat against the wall, hard. In a panic he broke into a run. The princess’ door was open by the time he arrived and flew into the room. The sight in front of him put him in a panic and made the blood pump loud and heavy in his ears.

Dís was being strangled by a dwarf Bilbo did not recognize, likely one of Dáin’s. Without thinking he ran and then leapt into the air, landing on the dwarrow’s back. The dwarf lurched in surprise. Bilbo took this moment’s hesitation to reach around and slide his hidden dagger into the soft belly of the attacker. They shouted in pain and reared back, ramming into the wall and knocking the breath out of Bilbo. His vision darkened as spots flew about in front of his eyes. In his shock he barely had time to notice what was happening; all that he knew was that the attacker was temporarily immobilized, and that Dís’ neck was red and swollen.

Bilbo slipped out from behind the dwarf to grab the rope that had been dropped on the ground. The attacker had already begun to stumble forward, obviously intent on finishing his job. Before he could move much more Bilbo was on him, wrapping the rope tight and pulling with a grunt.

Later he would remember the sounds the most, ones he would try in vain to erase from his memory. There was first the wet gasps and gurgles of suffocation. That might have been the end of it if Bilbo hadn’t had a sudden burst of even more rage and pulled the rope even tighter. Then there was a sickening _crack_ as the neck bones of the intruder snapped. 

He had murdered somebody. He had murdered a _dwarf_ , likely a very important one, perhaps even a member of Thorin’s family. He was a _murderer_ , and not of an evil creature but of a soul that might have been able to be saved.

“Hello?” Dís called out. “Who is here?”

Bilbo was still invisible. He yanked the ring off of his finger, then looked at his own hands. They were burned from the friction of the rope and covered in blood from the stomach wound he had inflicted. When he looked up Dís was pale, and not just from shock. She was clearly frightened.

“Oh Bilbo, what have you done?”

He opened and shut his mouth weakly. At that moment the door opened wider, and both turned their heads to look, Bilbo already readying himself for more battle if the need be. Instead he found Gandalf and Thorin, both looking quite shocked.

“Bilbo?” Thorin whispered, weakly. He walked forward and pulled the Hobbit into his embrace, where Bilbo wept. Distantly he could hear the door close, then the whispering of Gandalf and the princess.

“He can’t stay here; they will charge him with murder and he will be sentenced to death.”

“Thorin will not let him leave.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Thorin whispered into Bilbo’s curls. 

“I’ve ruined everything,” Bilbo whispered back. Thorin only squeezed him tighter.

“No, _ghivashel_. You have ruined nothing. Only changed where we will live.”

“But this is your _home_ ,” Bilbo gurgled weakly. How pathetic of him, to go from a ravenous murderer to a sniveling home-wrecker in the space of a minute. 

“No, Bilbo, _you_ are my home.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt—“ Dís said loudly. Bilbo and Thorin looked up at the princess. She was lit from behind from the embers of her fireplace. The color had returned to her face, and she no longer looked scared. She was now tall, proud, determined, and serious. She was so very _royal_ , so very _Durinsfolk._ The family strength was outpouring from her, and it was glorious. “But we have to make haste. Gandalf will alert the others, but we must leave now. He will meet up with us later.”

“We can take the secret entrance,” Thorin suggested.

“I have secret supplies stored in my chambers, enough for at least three,” Bilbo informed the group. 

“So do I,” the brother and sister intoned at the same time. 

It was amazing how something like that—such a small, throw-away piece of time—could do so much for morale. This was a small moment in this fray, after this admission, where they all were able to share a smile. This was the hope that was still alight in Erebor, and would be carried with them on their journey.

“Fly! There is no time to waste!” Gandalf shouted, getting their attention again. The group sprang up and obeyed.

And just like that, sandwiched between beautiful and fearsome royalty, Bilbo was on another adventure.

 

_** End of Part 1: Resurrection ** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So while this ends on a dark note I assure you that Part 2 will be extremely fluff (and smut?) filled, as its setting will mainly be in the Shire. So look forward to that, to heal the wounds of this chapter...sorry?


	5. I can stand by my pillar of hope and trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are several perks to living in the Shire--namely clothes, company, and parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I'll be taking a lot of liberties with the timeline when it comes to the births of Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

## Part 2: Rejuvenation

 

As improbable as it seemed the first thing that was difficult to acclimate to was the sun. He was used to a world that was lit from within, bright from fires and their light reflected off of gold, jewels, and stone. His life had been cast in flashes of orange, blue, and gold, and his eyes were accustomed to the deep contrast of sight that came from shadows. The presence of the neutrals—the slate, the multi varied tones of grey—had grounded his vision and kept him focused.

And so being bathed in brightness was a near terror. Of course it didn’t help that for the first month of rest this light was from the sunshine in Rivendell. It didn’t matter that Lord Elrond had shown his loyalty, that the realm’s Elves had extended such help and courtesy. Thorin would never be able to fully trust them. Whether realistic or no he couldn’t help but be weary, as the pain of trust broken was often like the throbbing of an old wound, scarred but never fully healed. He collected these wounds and carried them close, a slowly growing list of rejections and lessons learned.

It was painful, of course, to add Dáin to this list. He was reminded often in these days that this assessment wasn’t completely fair; the sickness and the way he had convinced the other dwarrow was just unfortunate but shouldn’t carry the same pain as an outright betrayal. Dís told him this the most often through gentle teasing, reminding Thorin of the good memories they had shared when younger despite the war. When Dwalin arrived three weeks into their stay in Rivendell (and thank Mahal; he needed at least one companion that shared his annoyance with the Elves) he was able to support Dís’ assessment with the evidence of what he had witnessed before his flight from the mountain. 

(“He is sick, Thorin,” he had explained. “You weren’t so different long ago.”

“Yes, but none of you lot fell for my delusions,” Thorin had responded. Dwalin had just shrugged and smirked. 

“Perhaps we’re just better than all others, or perhaps you are not as inspiring as you think.”)

It was nice, of course, to have a safe spot to discuss. The flight away from the mountain had been a frightening one—and rightfully so, as Dwalin had explained later. Two separate groups of soldiers had been sent out to look for them and bring them to justice. The story was that Thorin, still under the control of dragon sickness, had plotted with his sister and consort to kill all others from the line of Durin in order to secure his royal status. The murder of even one was egregious enough in their society of small numbers and small births; if this imaginary plot had been true and had succeeded it would go down in dwarf history as the most bloodthirsty of crimes against their people. It was unclear when—if ever—Thorin would safely be able to return to Erebor.

Still, there were little things that eased the pain. There was the conspiratorial smile on Dís’ face when she helped him set up small pranks against the lesser Elves to brighten his spirits. There was the silent but solid support of Dwalin when they took their nightly smoke together. There was the insistence from the wizard that this was a temporary solution, an assertion that he would be happy to accept for now because anything spoken from a wizard could nearly give a being hope that it was prophecy.

And then there was, of course, Bilbo. 

Bilbo, who made the near-blinding light acceptable and near worthy of praise when it illuminated his eyes, kissed his hair and brightened the freckles on his skin.

Bilbo, who clearly enjoyed everything about Elven culture (which wasn’t fair; Thorin was positive that Bilbo would have loved Dwarven culture much more if he had experienced more of it) but said nothing of it in front of Thorin.

Bilbo, who kissed the scars on his body on some nights, and kissed the scars on his soul when he would remind Thorin that while betrayal was a reality so was devotion and trust earned.

Bilbo, who didn’t completely fill up the pain of losing his treasured home once again, but who made it seem more manageable, more conquerable.

“You have done it once before, and you can do it again,” he said like a mantra every day to Thorin. This helped on the nights when he couldn’t fall asleep, when he was plagued by the crippling feelings of failure and regret. On these nights he repeated to himself:

_I have done it once before, and I can do it again._

 

 

They arrived soon after. Thorin trembled and his wound felt hot the first time he saw the Lady Galadriel, which triggered several images of his time between life and death with Eru Ilúvatar in the Halls. He entertained the thought for a moment that she _knew_ (and perhaps she did?) when her eyes landed on him and she smiled enigmatically. They never spoke during her visit, but it seemed he could still hear her voice in his head whispering “welcome back” repeatedly. 

Equally silent to him was the other wizard, the tall white one. He barely deigned to look upon Thorin and his kin, something that Dís found especially annoying and wasn’t afraid to say so in angry, hushed tones to himself and Dwalin. 

It is, of course, vexing that none of the Dwarves are invited to the meeting of the White Council even though Thorin is absolutely certain that they are a topic of discussion. Gandalf waved off this discussion when Thorin began to ask about it.

“There are many matters to discuss, Thorin, not just you,” he said in vague terms. 

“So I _am_ to be discussed then.”

“Well, naturally,” Gandalf admitted. “But not exclusively.”

Thorin grunted and opened his mouth to continue to fight, but closed it when Gandalf’s face darkened.

“It is deeply important that you follow our decision and trust in our wisdom, Thorin. Your lives are important and must be protected. While you may not understand our reasoning, you must trust that it is true.”

Thorin wanted to argue with this, to point out the many moments where Gandalf had abandoned them during the quest and where his presence had even hindered them. He swallowed his ire, though, and gave a short nod. 

“Agreed.”

Gandalf smiled and clapped Thorin on the shoulder.

“Wonderful. Now,” he said with a disconcerting twinkle in his eyes. “Go find your Hobbit and find some way to entertain yourselves for the next few hours.”

Gandalf laughed at Thorin’s sputtering, and that was the last that he saw of the Wizard for two days (as it turned out “a few hours” was far too conservative a guess). When the White Council finally broke there was no joy in their faces, only resolve and perhaps grief. Thorin would never admit it but this made him more fearful than nearly anything he had experienced in his years.

“You four are to live in The Shire. Temporarily. This is where we can best protect you.”

This is met with mixed reactions from his companions. Dwalin seems to be the least excited about this, as he doesn’t understand how such a place can be protective at all. Dís appears delighted, though Thorin assumes this is mostly due to the ways she will be able to tease him in the coming time. Bilbo looks nervous and serious but Thorin can see the energy and happiness to return home bubbling beneath the surface, though he is too polite to share this with those who have just lost their homes again.

And Thorin? Well, after everything else, mostly he is just happy that he will not have to live among the Elves any longer. It could, after all, be far worse.

 

  
There is a day in the future where Hamfast is awoken with a surprised “ _oof_ ,” the breath stolen from his body. When he looks down he will see tiny Samwise clinging to him, cheeks ruddy and stained with streaks of tears.

“What is wrong, my boy?”

“There is something… _unnatural_ , I swear it!” Samwise will moan into his chest. The Gaffer will chuckle and squeeze his son closer.

“In the Shire? There’s nothing untoward in these parts, son.” Samwise will make a loud noise as he sniffs and rubs his nose into Hamfast’s tunic.

“But what about ghosts? You’ve never seen a ghost?”

In that moment Hamfast will remember clearly, ever so clearly, the moment when Bilbo Baggins returned to Bag End. 

That afternoon was a frustrating one. For the past week he had been fighting with the Hobbits that showed up to organize the auction of all of Bilbo’s things, but he was eventually overpowered—notably by Lobelia, who he had learned many years ago to not cross. Bell and the Gaffer stood together in their garden, scowling angrily as the auction was underway. The four little ones were enjoying the small reprieve where they weren’t being paid mind, squealing and running somewhere in his peripheral with some of the other wee Shirelings that had been carted over by their parents. 

About an hour in—long after Hobbits had begun to sing happy tunes as they carried away Master Baggins’s things—there was a loud commotion coming from the path. Within seconds Bell let out a frightened squeak and then fainted into Hamfast’s arms. Hastily he carried her into their Hobbit hole, laid her down on their bed, and then ran outside and past his gate to see the commotion. 

To be true he almost fainted himself at the sight. There, flanked by what appeared to be three _Dwarves_ of all creatures, was Bilbo Baggins himself. The _dead Bilbo Baggins_ , resurrected and currently trying to rip his belongings from the arms of Lobelia herself.

“This is my home! And those are my spoons, _thank you very much,”_ Bilbo snapped. The Hobbits around them gasped and took a step back, but Lobelia only sneered.

“Is this the hospitality of the Shire?” one of the Dwarves bellowed. He was a frightening one, the most unsavory that Hamfast had ever had the displeasure of seeing. This dwarf was taller than any other he had seen, and much of the skin he was showing was covered in tattoos. “You sell off a fellow’s things when he is gone?”

There was another Dwarf who had run back down the path to catch up with those already trying to leave, snarling and getting close to the faces of several Hobbits. This one was slighter than the other two, with somewhat softer features and a more feminine voice. This is when Hamfast—and, presumedly, most of the other Shire inhabitants—found out that there were indeed female Dwarves. This one was just as fierce as any other he had seen, and while he couldn’t hear what she was saying to the Hobbits he did see their frightened faces as they quickly handed over the belongings they had grabbed.

Curiously, the third Dwarf was quiet as he followed Bilbo closely. He looked deeply uncomfortable; as Hamfast would later learn he was concerned about making a positive first impression with those he believed to be his future in-laws. 

By this point Bilbo had made it up to the auctioneer, a Hobbit from the Southfarthing not seen in these parts before. He was scowling down at Master Baggins and his quiet but looming companion.

“It has been nearly sixteen months since anyone has seen or heard from Bilbo Baggins! If you are in fact Bilbo Baggins and undeceased can you prove it? Something official with your name on it would suffice.”

“Right! Right,” Bilbo barked as he marched up the last few paces between himself and the auctioneer. The other Hobbit had the grace to look frightened as the other two Dwarves were now standing next to the quiet one, glaring and mumbling to themselves. “A contract of employment as a—“ Bilbo paused. “Well, never mind as what.”

The female Dwarf snorted and elbowed the tattooed Dwarf, who cracked a small smile. Hamfast thought it only made him more menacing, to be true. 

The auctioneer looked over the paper handed to him and appeared for a second to want to dispute it—that is, until he looked up and was met with the angry glares of the Dwarves.

“Right! Well, this seems to be in order,” he squeaked. “It seems there can be no doubt. But who is this person you pledged your service to? This Thorin Oakenshield?” Immediately the tallest Dwarf broke in with a growl.

“Show respect, Shireling. This is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, whom we have all pledged our service to.”

“Well,” the female Dwarf laughed. “Not _all_ of us have pledged our service. Some of us are stuck with this halfwit for life by our birth.” So perhaps his sister?

Bilbo huffed, walked back down the path and took the hand of the still-silent Dwarf.

“ _This_ , sir, is Thorin Oakenshield. He is my friend and he is my beloved.”

Hamfast stuffed his fist in his mouth to muffle his laughter. It wasn’t every day that you saw a Dwarf so silent, much less one blushing from head to toe and looking down at the Hobbit, grinning wide. The other two Dwarves were elbowing each other and sniggering, but looked very pleased.

Bilbo coughed and rocked back and forth on his heels a few times, never letting go of the Dwarf’s—Thorin—hand. “Yes, well. I would have you please return my belongings and leave us be _thank you very much._ ”

With that he dragged Thorin up the steps and into Bag End, the other two in tow. Later the Gaffer would come over with Bell and the little ones. He would formally meet the Dwarves—Dwalin and Dís and, of course, Thorin—and he would listen with a smile as the little ones proudly retold the stories of the ways he and Bell had valiantly tried to stop the auction. Dís would step aside with Bell and talk about being taken on a tour while Hamson, Halfred, Daisy and May climbed on top of the two male Dwarves. As it turned out they were much better at playing games like “throw me in the air” and play wrestling. 

Hamfast would stand to the side with Bilbo in the kitchen, helping him to prepare supper. He would clap Bilbo on the shoulder and officially give his approval of Thorin. Bilbo would laugh and thank him, and later—much later, really—he would eventually tell him some of the tales of his adventure. These would be tales that Hamfast would be asked for in the decades to come when he sits in The Green Dragon Inn. These would be the tales that Samwise would ask for, even though some of them would give him nightmares about _the unnatural_. These would be the tales that he would protect the most, because they were the precious stories of how Bilbo left on an adventure and returned with _life_.

 

 

_One year later_

 

“Bother!” Bilbo yelped when the pin stuck in his leg. The tailor, Old Masco, snorted and threatened the needle again. 

“If you would stand still you would not be stuck, Bilbo,” he rumbled. Bilbo sucked in his breath and tried to look serious; in truth he quite hated being around needles held by other people and not his own hand; it reminded him too much of the way the young Hobbits would tease and torture each other in their youth. “You commissioned me for a new birthday outfit. I am not forcing you to be here.”

“You are right,” Bilbo sighed. “I apologize.”

Masco shrugged and continued his work. “You are still easier to work with than your Dwarf friends. I thought they were, well,” he paused and chuckled. “Made of _sterner_ stuff.”

Bilbo laughed; he knew all too well what Masco was speaking of. For a race so accustomed to lives of hardship and tough trades they were very easily harmed in the Shire. He would never forget the pitiful sounds Dwalin had made when he got his first sunburn (“Well you should have worn the hat I gave you.” “It is unbecoming!” “Then your head will get burned.”) on his bare scalp, nor the moaning of Thorin after his first day of walking with bare feet (“I want to fit in with your people”). Dís had fared the best of the three of them, which came as no surprise to Bilbo; he was absolutely sure that being the younger sibling of Thorin and Frerin would make anybody prepared for the worst and perpetually ready for the worst. There had been a learning curve with her to be sure but she had a much better go at it all; her infamous charm had paid off time and time again as she befriended what seemed like the entire Shire, much to Thorin’s chagrin (“Why do they like you so much? They should like me more. I am the One of one of their own!” “Well perhaps you should just be like me, Brother, and change everything about yourself”). 

Thorin was not, in fact, disliked by the Hobbits; he simply did not yet understand Hobbit culture enough to see it. Naturally he was a hit with the young lasses; while he did not possess any of the aesthetic beauty traits most valued by Hobbits his looks were still undeniably handsome, and his deep voice affected the tweens the same way it affected Bilbo. It seemed for the first six months that Thorin would come back inside the Smial with a new handful of flowers from admirers. He assumed that these were messages that Thorin needed help with his gardening (which, to be fair, he did) and Bilbo was not quick to correct him—that is until Bilbo snapped and chased a would-be suitor down the path from Bag End.

(“What was that?” Thorin had exclaimed. Bilbo only frowned upon his return and huffed.

“He wanted to court you! The nerve of the young!”

Thorin had chuckled and pulled Bilbo into his arms. He had been sweaty from his work in the garden, but in this instance it only made him more desirable.

“Then perhaps I need to work harder to show that I am spoken for.” His voice had been even deeper and huskier than normal, and Bilbo enjoyed every moment of their long, hot kisses in his yard even if it was quite un-respectable of him to do so.)

Really, it had been that moment that made Bilbo certain that it was time for him to begin his official courtship of Thorin. His plan was to perform the first Task of Giving after his birthday party the next week. The past year they had been too busy settling into Bag End again to properly celebrate his birthday, and as such he had only prepared enough small baubles as gifts for the Gamgees and his Dwarves. This year, though, he knew that he would get no such reprieve; the Hobbits of the Shire were all gasping to know more about the queer goings-on in Bag End and he could no longer hold of the inquiring visitors. 

His reverie was suddenly broken into with another sharp poke.

“Graces!” Bilbo yelped and pulled his leg away. Old Masco frowned and slapped Bilbo’s foot sharply.

“You should respect your elders! I asked you a question.” 

Bilbo frowned and grumbled yet another apology. 

“What was the question?”

“I wanted to know when your Dwarves will come for their fitting.”

“Oh! Well, Dwalin said that he would be along after his charges have been picked up by their parents. Dís would like to visit tomorrow before her trip to the market, and Thorin should be along—well, any moment, actually.”

As if on cue a bell rung in the air, the signal that the door to the shop had opened. He smiled to see Thorin duck slightly to get through the doorway and walk over. At the sight of Bilbo his eyes widened, then softened as he pressed a quick kiss to Bilbo’s cheek, who flushed under both this and Masco’s knowing grin. 

“You look quite handsome, my Hobbit,” Thorin praised. “Your tailor must be the best in the Shire.”

Old Masco scoffed, but he looked pleased. “You say this only because you will soon be on my pedestal and at my mercy.”

Thorin chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “Can I be blamed? That is just good sense, Master Bosco.”

Soon Bilbo was hopping off the pedestal and going into the small changing room to get his every day clothes back on. He really did like what Old Bosco was making for his birthday; the fabric of his vest was a deep and beautiful blue that shimmered in the light, illuminating the subtle pattern within. He would be wearing very light-colored trousers and a matching shirt, which was unusual but quite becoming. And, of course, the accompanying ascot was a beautiful red—as per her preferred colors.

When he came back out he was faced with Old Bosco’s creation on Thorin’s body for the first time. 

“You sneak!” he growled at the tailor with a wag of his finger. The tailor had used the same material of Bilbo’s vest to fashion a tunic for Thorin, and it appeared that they would be wearing similar trousers as well. For his part Bosco just looked quite pleased with himself.

“Did you expect me to resist the opportunity to match your clothes?” he asked with a snort. Thorin chuckled from his place on the pedestal. 

“We do make a fetching pair,” Thorin said with a puff of his chest. Bilbo smacked his arm and shook his head.

“Incorrigible. What error did I do to be saddled with Dwarves?” he joked. 

The fitting was soon done, and the pair returned to Bag End. Upon Thorin’s suggestion they took the walk through Hobbiton slowly, leisurely. Their gait was easy and slow and their hands clasped as the early evening breeze ruffled Bilbo’s curls and made Thorin’s long hair rustle gently about his face as he told Bilbo of his day working as a blacksmith and carpenter. The winding paths were filled with the smiling faces of Hobbits who waved and greeted the pair as they walked past. Thorin’s kept a grin on his face and bellowed merry greetings back to the Hobbits. Bilbo wasn’t exactly the jealous type but, well, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was enough to keep Thorin’s attention in the long run.

“You are quite liked out here, you know,” Bilbo sighed as he squeezed his Dwarf’s hand. Thorin rumbled an affirmative sound and squeezed back.

“Yet there is only one opinion that I care about,” he replied, almost as if he knew Bilbo’s thoughts. Bilbo smiled in response, quite pleased.

“Do you want to see where my party shall be held?” he asked when they got closer to the party tree. 

“Lead the way, _ghivashel_ ,” he replied. Their hands eventually had to part when the pair had to perform a few leaps and climb over two fences, and soon they were standing in the clearing. Bilbo walked about, pointing and sweeping his arms to demonstrate how the layout would be.

“This is where we will lay the presents,” he explained. “And this area over here will be where the dancing will take place. An area especially for children will be over here—and I suppose Dwalin will spend the most of his time there whether he wants it or not!—and over _here_ is where Gandalf will set up his fireworks, should he arrive in time.”

He eventually ended up standing directly below the Party Tree, and looked up into its branches. 

_And this, my beloved, is where I will give a speech and present to you a gift. I hope you accept it as the beginning of our courtship. I hope you will accept_ me.

He gasped quietly when arms encircled him from behind.

“Why did you go silent?” Thorin asked, nuzzling his sharp nose behind Bilbo’s ear, making the Hobbit shiver. 

“I was just thinking,” he replied quietly. Bilbo wrapped his own arms around Thorin’s and leaned his head back to rest against the Dwarf’s shoulder. 

“Thinking happy thoughts, I hope.”

“The best,” Bilbo sighed. The sun was nearly gone now, the scenery turning now to purples and deep blues as the last of the light faded. It reminded him of all of the nights spent outside with the Company, reminded him that he knew Thorin’s handsome face best in the evening light. “You know, I would have you against this tree in the darkness.”

Thorin’s body stiffened behind him. He let out a low whine and buried his face in Bilbo’s curls.

“Naughty Hobbit,” he huffed. “What happened to that respectable grocer I met?”

“Too much time with dirty Dwarves I suppose,” Bilbo laughed. He turned around in his beloved’s arms and looked up into his flushed face. “Come, let’s go home. I want to laugh more at Dwalin’s stories of the children.” He would never get over the joy of the way that the Dwarf, once a strong and feared warrior, was now the most trusted sitter in Hobbiton. 

“The children like _me_ , too,” Thorin whined as they clasped hands and walked away. Bilbo laughed loudly and squeezed the hand in his. 

“Sure they do, Thorin.”

It wasn’t Bilbo’s fault that scowls suited Thorin’s features. Could he truly be blamed for teasing to put them there on purpose? Besides, the fun of it was getting to kiss the scowl away.

 

 

 

An argument could be made (and was, multiple times, by the bastard Dwalin) that Dís was only so happy to throw her all into party planning because it was a pleasant distraction from the mourning she could have been doing— _should_ have been doing, really. There was truth to this; the more time she spent organizing, helping and socializing was less time spent in her quarters in Bag End clutching the last pieces of Fili and Kili’s childhood quilt and sobbing quietly into her bed. This had happened enough times in the past year and a half, thank you, and she was quite tired of the exhaustion of the aftermath. The emotions are too easily transformed into darkness, into a cavern of despair, into a monster in her own heart, and she won’t let it overtake her now. She is Durin’s blood, by Mahal, and that means that she must _endure_.

And so she barks out orders to the various Hobbits setting up the party as the seamstress apprentice makes her final stitches to Dís’s sleeve.

“If you had seen us earlier we wouldn’t have to finish like this,” she chides lightly. Dís shrugs her other shoulder in response.

“If my brother and Dwalin had helped then I would have had the time.” The seamstress—Primrose—barks out a laugh.

“You know as well as I that the men of _all_ races are quite useless,” Primrose whispers. Dís throws her head back and laughs loudly. She loves the companionship of these Hobbit women. Her initial assumptions of their _quaintness_ had been proven wrong after but one night of drinking and dancing, where she found out that it was the females who not only could hold their liquor better but who had to cart their partners back home afterward. She could identify easily, thinking of the many nights she had to carry her brothers, husband and sons home.

When her shirt was done she cooed over it and hugged the Hobbit woman, who squeezed back happily. The shirt was a beautiful, shimmering silver that matched the glimmering beads in her braids. Over this she shrugged on her favorite vest of fur. Her trousers were also Hobbit-made, a simple black that had a subtle sheen. These were tucked into her fur- and gem-decorated boots, her fanciest and, of course, her favorite.

“How do I look?” she asked with a twirl. Primrose clapped happily and then held her clasped hands to her heart.

“You are a vision, Princess,” she sighed happily. Dís bristled at the honorific, but Primrose spoke too quickly. “I know you don’t like it when I use that word, but you truly look it!”

Dís grabbed the Hobbit and engulfed her in a full-body hug. Prim giggled.

“Your beard tickles my face!” she exclaimed, making Dís laugh as well. When they pulled back the dwarrowdam subtly wiped a few tears from her eyes.

“I could not have survived without the friendship of you Hobbit women,” she whispered. Prim rolled her eyes and smacked Dís on the arm.

“You liar. You can survive anything. Now quiet; I need to go home and dress myself, and you need to make sure that these boys don’t break anything.”

With that Dís jumped back into party-planning mode. There was, in fact, at least one broken glass, but considering the sheer amount of guests this wasn’t so bad at all. Under her direction the party was set up just in time for the guests to arrive. She helped corral them about, putting aside separate food baskets for the musicians who were already playing for entertainment, directing the parents to leave the little ones with Dwalin (who looked, begrudgingly, quite fine in his party best) and keeping the greedier guests from pillaging through the gifts.

The first quiet moment was when Gandalf (who had arrived only minutes before the party began, nearly killing her with frustration!) set off his first firework for the night. She sat down for what was maybe the first time in over an hour and looked up as the sky above Hobbiton went ablaze in showers of gold and green. When she looked down she jumped; Dwalin was standing by her then, hands in pockets, smiling.

“What do you gawk at, Dwalin?” she grumbled. Not that she would admit it, but the remnants of the lights illuminated his figure quite beautifully. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he murmured. He had not stopped smiling. It only took a few more moments before a smile was tugging at her own mouth. Suddenly from behind his legs three wee Hobbits appeared. 

“Have you asked her yet?” the smallest shouted in the way that children do when they don’t know how loud they are. Another of the boys smacked the littlest about the head. 

“Don’t spoil it, Pip!”

Her smile faltered a second; they were so much like Fili and Kili. She caught herself, though, and crouched down to be eye-level with them.

“And who are you boys?” Dís cooed. The two energetic ones exclaimed their names at the same time.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service!”

“Peregrin Took, but call me Pippin!”

She barked out a laugh and ruffled the hair on each of their heads. She turned to the final of the three, clearly the oldest by a few years at least.

“And you?”

He held his hand out for a handshake, such an adorable motion for one so small.

“Frodo Baggins,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you finally.”

“And I you! You are Bilbo’s beloved nephew-cousin, aren’t you?”

Frodo nodded his head. “I have heard a lot of good things about you,” he said.

“Oh! Has your uncle been running his mouth again?”

Frodo shook his head. “No, it’s Master Dw—“

“Alright boys,” Dwalin boomed. “Run along now.”

“Ask her!” Merry and Pippin cried as they ran away, giggling. Frodo grinned, bowed, and ran after the other two.

Dís looked up to see the very rare sight of Dwalin’s face looking embarrassed and upset. She sighed; the boys were certainly hopeless.

“Would you like to dance, Dwalin?”

His face lit up even brighter than Gandalf’s fireworks, and that was quite impossible to ignore, she found. The teasing looks from Thorin and Bilbo—not to mention her boots suffering light wear from Dwalin’s stumbling feet—were worth it, ultimately.

It was soon time for Bilbo to give his speech. Great cheers erupted from the crowd of guests when he stood atop a box that had, earlier, held some of the fireworks.

“Thank you all!” he hollered above the din. The guests quieted. “I know long speeches are quite tedious, but please bear with me! Besides, you know that I am not one for tradition.” Bilbo said with a wink. “Last year I had just returned from an incredible, long, and quite unexpected journey. The entire time I kept the Shire in my mind. Oh how I missed _good_ pipe weed!” The crowd laughed, and Dwalin grumbled at Dís side about how dwarrow pipe weed was _just fine, thank you very much_. “I could not wait to get home again. Of course, what I found was that home isn’t a place, it’s people. And yes, it is all of you—even you, Lobelia, I see you back there, quite a lovely hat—but it is also my new friends. It is all of my Dwarves and one in particular. I think you all know who I am speaking about. Thorin, can you come up here?”

Dís smirked at the sight of her brother moving forward on shaking legs to stand by Bilbo, who was now slightly taller due to the box. Bilbo reached into his pocket, and Dís was momentarily confused; would he pull out that ring that turned him invisible? Why would he do that at this moment?

She didn’t immediately see what was in his hand, but it sent a gasp and muffled, excited screams through the crowd. 

“What is he holding? I can’t see,” she asked, leaning into Dwalin. His eyes narrowed.

“It looks like a necklace,” he mumbled. Dís furrowed her brows, but her confusion would be short-lived; Bilbo spoke again, his voice shaking.

“My father gave this to my mother to announce his intention to marry her, and I do the same to you. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, will you accept my offer to court and marry you?”

There was a collective and shaky intake of breath. It was broken after what seemed an eternity by a loud, barking laugh from Thorin. He pulled from his own pocket two braid beads, which Dís and Dwalin immediately recognized.

“I was going to ask you the same tonight,” Thorin snorted. He reached up and Bilbo reached down, and the crowd cheered as the two embraced and kissed under the party tree. 

And if Dwalin took her hand and squeezed it, well. It was an emotional moment. Such things could be excused for _this._

  
 

 

 

_ “What did your intel uncover?” Galadriel had asked during the meeting with the council. The answer was one that would change the course of the future, one that would cause days of upset, and one that could ultimately lead them to decide that the best thing to do would be to send the Dwarves to live in the Shire for safe-keeping. _

_ “Dáin means to recover the lost ring of Thráin.” _


End file.
